


Thine, the Amber Hands

by blueberryblues22



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Fall (Hannibal), violence and romance go hand-in-hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 22:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13890645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberryblues22/pseuds/blueberryblues22
Summary: "The thrumming in his chest was of his own individual variety. The heat of hunger that he knew to be growing in Hannibal was now blossoming in himself, leaves dark and damp inside his ribcage. Tonight was to be a feast."Hannibal and Will survive the fall. They wash ashore a paradise of their own making. Will finally sees Hannibal for what he has always been - the Creator.





	Thine, the Amber Hands

**Author's Note:**

> This is my interpretation of what happens after The Fall. Until Bryan Fuller establishes a season four, I choose to believe Hannibal and Will are chilling on a beach somewhere drinking expensive wine and sailing. The title comes from a poem by Emily Dickenson -- "The Moon is Distant from the Sea".
> 
> 'The Moon is distant from the Sea –  
> And yet, with Amber Hands –  
> She leads Him – docile as a Boy –  
> Along appointed Sands –
> 
> He never misses a Degree –  
> Obedient to Her eye –  
> He comes just so far – toward the Town –  
> Just so far – goes away –
> 
> Oh, Signor, Thine, the Amber Hand –  
> And mine – the distant Sea –  
> Obedient to the least command  
> Thine eye impose on me –'

For a few moments after the plunge, Will knows only three things to be true - the salt air, the ocean, and the firm hands that grip his wrists, sure to leave plum bruises in their wake. Every fiber of his being has been in a prolonged state of metamorphosis. Transforming and changing at the hands of Hannibal.

The final shred of Old Will dies in the fall.

Every moment before the fall suddenly seems unreal. All past is lost in the immediacy of the coldness. He clings to the shape that could only be Hannibal with a neediness that he cannot afford to be embarrassed by. Their forms merge into one as the sea tosses them, rolls them, drowns them in her all consuming expanse. Just as sudden as the sea had angered, her rage calms into a slow and steady tempo. The stag appears beneath their naked feet, dim and amorphous in the murk of the water, sinking like a feathered stone. _Down, down, down_. There is no color in the depths and sight becomes a useless sense. Will is reminded of those pale fish that reside in the deepest recesses of Mother Earth, long teeth and clear orbs where their eyes should be. Creatures as primordial as the stag.

He suddenly feels vulnerable. Exposed. The cold strips them of any affectation and they become primitive beings, grasping and clinging. The goal becomes survival. Hannibal is his survival. A white comet smears across the night sky and the last thing Will sees is Hannibal, eyes wet and serene as he looks from the comet to him, the beginning of a smile on his lips.

The water had cleansed them. Will could feel it in the soreness of his bones as they clung to the white beach. He could feel it in the rawness of his throat, the burning of his eyes, the strange but not unpleasant weight behind his ribs. A certain form of rebirth had happened and the pain signified a marrow-deep cleanse.

_Bless me Father, for I have sinned._

Will saw himself as a thin, underfed child back at church, the second-hand suit swallowing his small form. He could hear the click of the confessional as he sat in the stagnant booth and prepared to ask for absolution. He had always had a penchant for the Sacrament of Penance. In the watercolor shadows he could see his small lips moving, no noise coming from them, confessing for the sins of others.

_The ocean does hold a certain affinity for purification, does it not? The water seems to have stripped away any sense of trepidation you may have been feeling. I can see it in your eyes, Will._

Hannibal is haloed by the pale, pink light of morning. The Atlantic thrums behind them as steady as a pulse, beckoning them to return to her. It fades with the salty sea air as they limp to shore.

The town they find themselves in may as well be on a distant planet. All traces of their life before had been left in the ocean, sunken into murky stagnation, smothered by tendrils of foreign creatures. Hannibal assures him he has an account under a pseudonym that is ripe for the taking and they purchase a small home on the coast, appliances, and a completely new wardrobe. The town is small and bleached white, a stone shell as natural to the coast as any nature-made object.

They are both marred persons now. It is weeks before their skin is free of thin cotton bandages and they can bask in the new glory of the yellow sun. The maroon lacerations fade into soft markings, which fade further as the paleness of their skin is replaced by a healthy tan. The plum bruises that had clung to his eyes since childhood suddenly vanish. For the first time in his life, Will sleeps peacefully. He spends their first few days on land sleeping an embarrassing amount - tangled in cotton sheets, sprawled on their patio, leaning against the firm shoulder of Hannibal as he transcribes his music to paper.

Hannibal says their new life is reminiscent of a Henri Matisse painting. He buys a boat claiming it to be for the both of them, despite the fact that he has never shown an interest in sailing before. She is a small vessel, the smell of lacquer and salt embedded into her being. Long days are spent on white shores, polishing and winding and hammering the boat into a thing of beauty. Hannibal had christened the evening of her first voyage with a small gathering of their new friends and a bottle of Tenuta San Guido Sassicaia. The night fades with the sounds of offshore gulls and warm conversation.

While Hannibal was comfortable on the shores of their stone town, Will found solace at sea. Their happy-medium was the glistening shore, specifically the isolated nook where they often held morning picnics. Hannibal would often read aloud prose to him as they dined, a pale blue cotton blanket offering an assortment of sweet cheeses and macedonia.

_Oh, Signor, thine the amber hand,_

_And mine the distant sea;_

_Obedient to the least command,_

_Thine eye impose on me._

The words sometimes rung like a bell in his head as he sailed the rugged waters, always read in the same baritone voice.

Will was no longer haunted by the ghosts of his past. There were no more metaphysical beings waiting to persuade him, push him, pull him. The people of his past drowned in the Atlantic, dissolving into distant memories. Sometimes they were there to greet him in the waves. After a particularly devastating nor'easter, Will captained his small boat over the rolling grey waves on a solo voyage. The honey sweet wind billowed his sails into fluid shapes and there, just below the surface of the water, they would appear shimmering and remorseful.

_The shadows of our past never quite leave us. We must always look forward._

A hunger had been growing in the few months since they washed ashore Paradise. Will could sense a change in the atmosphere, a looming need that permeated the usual serenity. At first, Will assumed the source was Hannibal. As he watched him cook in the dim light of morning, hands forming and peeling and prodding, he had a revelation. The thrumming in his chest was of his own individual variety. The heat of hunger that he knew to be growing in Hannibal was now blossoming in himself, leaves dark and damp inside his ribcage.

Tonight was to be a feast.

Hannibal parks his car two blocks from their destination. He lets the car sit in idle, more for Will's sake than his own, and the steady purr of the engine does nothing to calm his nerves. Will does not want to wait. Patience had never been his virtue and he clicks the car door open, waiting for Hannibal to follow him down the burnt cobblestone road. The night was humid and dampness clung to him like a second skin. In the far off shadow of their car he spots a creature, faceless and new to the world.

The moon watches them in full view tonight. The breadth of her warm light reaches them as it had many months ago, the night Will had forged his bloody rebirth with Hannibal.

_This one is for you. Careful of the blade, I have just had them tended to._

The steel is cold in his hand. It feels comfortable, a natural extension of his own being - some sort of vestigial appendage that has regrown in his recent evolution.

_I am glad we are to do this together, Will._

The house appears suddenly. A stone arch hides the modest brickwork and stained-glass windows. A blue shadow is cast over their bodies and they are bathed in a halo of light green not unlike the ocean a few miles to their east.

_I_ _do hope we are more efficient than the last time._

Hannibal chimes the doorbell.

It takes them two hours to properly bind, drain, and package the meat of their victory. They get lost in the motions, strangling and slicing in a less than efficient way. Will is reminded of young lion cubs on the savannah that are too swollen with the newness of it all to be entirely methodical. The pounding of his heart is to the same melody as Hannibal. He can tell when they collapse in an exhausted tangle on the front porch, serene in a closeness that would normally make Will uncomfortable.

The silence that follows is swollen with unspoken pride. Hannibal rubs him between the shoulder blades, cheshire smile wide in the blue light of the stained-glass window. Will could see their two forms reflected in the overhead framed painting, warped and aquatic.

Maybe they never left the Atlantic.

_It is so nice to see you flourish here, Will. Free of restriction, the petals of your bloom are quite marvelous._

Although Will had never considered himself a natural when it came to the culinary arts, they cook this meal together. Hannibal guides him with amber hands as they create their very first magnum opus. A gentle nudge of the shoulder, a firm guiding of the wrist. Getting to watch Hannibal cook back in Baltimore had always been a theatrical experience, but actually being involved in the process was entirely different.

The finished product is a piece to behold. It sits on a chrome dish on a large oaken table, surrounded by chrysanthemums and bowls of ripe fruit. Their guests gather around the table in awe, all rose dusted cheeks and satin bow-ties. Hannibal rests a hand on his shoulder, working the crowd with his usual peacock flourish and commanding them to _please, sit._ They share a proud smile and join their guests, the smell of citrus sweet in the air.

For the first time in his life, Will is on the other side of the table. The hole that usually ached behind his ribs was no longer filled with the beliefs and values of a stranger, but completely his own. No longer was he to be used by Uncle Jack as a conductor, for the electrical current of someone else's misdeeds to run through his veins. He now operated on his own current. Hannibal was right to say he was flourishing. He had always known that a reckoning was coming and he could even see it even as a thin child back in the fields of Virginia. He had just never known that it was a reckoning of himself.

In the warm glow of Paradise, Will finally sees Hannibal for what he is.


End file.
